What You Don't Say

You were standing in the doorway

with your coat already on, your bag

already on your shoulder, and I was

looking at the back of your neck.

The way your hair was pulled back

showed the small hairs at your nape,

the ones you probably don't know are there,

the ones I could see clearly

from where I was standing in the kitchen.

Your shoulders had that particular tightness,

the kind that means you're holding

something back, some weight you're carrying

into the hallway. I wanted to say

something. I opened my mouth

and closed it. There were a thousand things

I could have said that might have stopped you,

but I didn't say any of them.

Instead I watched you turn the doorknob,

watched the back of your neck disappear

into the hallway, watched the door close

the way doors do when someone is leaving.

And I thought about that spot of skin,

that vulnerable place between your spine

and your shoulder, and I thought about how

I had just let you go without saying

the thing that might have made you stay.